


Ficwar!

by tinsnip



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fat - Freeform, Kukalaka - Freeform, M/M, Nonsense, Ogling, Short, Touch, ficwar!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So we all started slinging prompts at each other on tumblr. Here's some of what fell out.<br/>Very short stories, cracky as all heck. Fun to write, though!</p><p>Thus far, we have:<br/>1.  Chubby Julian<br/>2.  Garak and Kukalaka<br/>3.  Cardassian ogling<br/>4.  The desire to touch</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bible-believing-rikerist asked: ok here's your prompt for a fic: fat bashir

_Can’t be._

"Repeat scan."

There’s a soft hum, a play of light over his body. He braces himself, standing tall, sucking in his gut as if it will make any difference.

The computer’s voice is dispassionate. “Body mass index of thirty-one-point-two. Mass one hundred and four kilograms.”

_Oh, my God—_

Too much rich sauce? Too little walking? Cardassia is so damned hot—he hasn’t been playing tennis—he’s been holing up in his lab doing research, and Garak’s been making all of his meals, and _oh my God!_

He pats his face, feels the thickness of it, the roundness of his cheeks.

"How did I let this happen?"

"Hmmm…" The sigh in his ear is happy; the arms that slide around his waist—his ample waist—squeeze him tightly.

"It’s your fault."

"Perhaps in part…"

He turns, tries to shoot Garak an irritated side-eye; hard to do when the man is standing just behind him. “What am I going to do?”

"Must you do anything?"

"Must I—" He’s aghast. "Of course! I… I mean, surely you don’t want me to stay this way?"

Garak blinks once, lazily. “Doctor, must we review Cardassian physiology once again?”

He rolls his eyes. “God, now what?”

"Don’t you remember the shape of my charming mentor?"

He thinks back,  remembers Tain, toad-like and self-satisfied. “What about him?”

"That wasn’t due to his diet, my dear."

He blinks in confusion. “It wasn’t?”

"Mmm." Garak’s smile is amused. "Have you never noticed that the Cardassians highest in the social echelons tend to be the heaviest ones?"

He thinks about it. “Um… not really… is that so?”

"It is," and now Garak nuzzles up to him, nips his heavy cheek, and he’s the oddest mixture of embarrassed and delighted. "It signifies power, my dear. Power and strength…"

"Oh, dear God. You aren’t saying…"

A soft breath in his ear. “I’ve always thought you could stand to put on a little weight, my dear, strong doctor…”

Apparently there is a silver lining in every cloud.


	2. Anonymous asked: Fic war prompt: Garak with Julien's teddy bear (I forget his name)

He looks at the damage. It’s bad. Very bad.

One arm is almost completely severed. Parts of it that were never meant to see the light of day have been exposed to the harsh glare of the station lights, and he winces slightly at the pathos presented to him. The poor thing looks half-dead.

“You were right not to try to move him. Let me have a look.” He bends, peers at the wound; near him, the worried relative paces back and forth, wringing his hands.

“Thank you for coming over on such short notice… I just didn’t know what to do!”

“It’ll be all right. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“I know. I know you do.” A pause, a breath, as if to reassure himself. “You’re a professional, after all.” But the man’s eyes are still somewhat panicked.

“Yes, indeed. Although…” He pauses, looks at the frantic face hanging on his every word, thinks for a moment. “I wonder if I could ask you to assist with the procedure?”

Yes, that was the right thing to say. Suddenly there’s focus on those features. “Absolutely. What do you need?”

“Could you hold his head like so for me, please…?”

His demonstration is met with enthusiasm.

“Just like… will this do?”

“Yes, now… stay still…”

He begins to suture, carefully, each pass of the needle meticulously placed to leave no mark behind.

“Do you…” The voice tries to mask the nervousness behind the words. “Do you think you can repair the damage?”

“Oh, most certainly…” He smiles to himself. “I promise you, when I’m finished, he’ll be good as new.”

“Oh, thank God!” Elation in that voice now; there’s a brief loss of focus, and his little patient jiggles in unsteady hands—

“Hold him still!” He frowns, doesn’t look up, he’s _concentrating._

“Sorry. Sorry, I just… it’s such a relief, you know?”

And there’s such emotion in that voice that now he does look up. He sees the way Bashir’s gazing down at his silly stuffed animal, at the depth of feeling in his eyes.

_What does this thing mean to him?_

“I’m not sure I do, actually.” He lets his voice drift light and easy; from the corner of his eye he sees Bashir glance at him.

“Sorry, it’s silly.”

“Not at all. Human ritual is of endless interest to me.” Another stitch, a loop through soft fur…

“It’s not Human ritual, not really. It’s just… Bashir ritual, I suppose.” A touch of embarrassed laughter in that voice, and he smiles at his hands, working on their own.

“That sounds even better. Do go on.”

And while he works, Bashir talks to him, spins him a story. It more than suffices as payment for his work. When he’s done, Kukalaka (how fascinating!) is indeed as good as new, and the gratitude in Bashir’s eyes is almost embarrassing.

He hands the little creature back to Bashir with a frown. “Do be more careful with him, won’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely. I mean, most things I can fix myself, but _this…”_  There’s a shudder in Bashir’s voice, and Garak nods in understanding.

“It would have left a nasty scar.”

“And he’s got enough of those.” Now Bashir looks up from his bear with a bit of a grin, and Garak tilts his head, smiles.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Although the marks of previous repair are rather obvious. He could do better on his worst day.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Bashir nods, he nods back… but he can’t resist.

“Although I do hope you do better work on your live patients.”

“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“I can’t see the back of my own skull.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to trust me that there’s no seam.”

He rolls his eyes, and Bashir grins.


	3. Cardassian staring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bmouse asked: Mwahaha Fic War Prompt: Garak being back on Cardassia and getting hit on by cute widows/someone local etc. since by Human beauty standards he's a Scary Lizard Person but back home he's definitely some kind of all right (esp. for those not so into the inbred Dukat look...). Extra Double Bonus Points for Bashir being around to witness and his reaction.

“They’re looking at us.” Julian looks over at the group of women by the window, giggling, peering.

“Are they?”

“They definitely are… God, I’m so tired of this.” Now his brows draw down, and Garak is amused.

“What, exactly, is this?”

“Just… standing out all the time. Being the lone bastion of Humanity in a sea of Cardassians.”

“Ah. I see.” He tries for an understanding tone, a breath of sympathy. Apparently it’s not nearly enough, because Julian’s frowning, thinking, and abruptly his eyes narrow.

“Do you… Do you know what? I’ve had it.”

Oh, dear. “Julian, what are you doing—”

“I’m going to go over there and give them a piece of my mind, that’s what I’m going to do—” As he pushes back from the table, stands up tall, shoulders braced—

“I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Stay right here!” His voice is commanding, his face a thunderstorm, and for a moment Garak can’t help but delight in those wide, angry eyes, that frowning mouth.

“As you wish.”

He watches in delight as Julian storms across the little tea shop, as he confronts the women, his rudimentary second tongue shouting _boundary! displeasure!_ He smiles to himself as the women look at Julian in confusion, as their arms and shoulders placate him, as their heads bob. The very best moment of all, though, is when all four of them turn to look at him. Julian’s eyes are wide, his mouth gaping, and—charmingly—he’s signalling _incredulity._ The women smile small smiles, look back and forth between him and Julian, indicate _wistful/pleasure/appreciation._

He bows his head, _acknowledgement,_ and Julian’s eyes widen even further. It rather looks as if they’re going to spring from his head. It’s perfect.

Julian’s return to the table is slow. He enjoys every step.

When Julian sits, his cheeks are blazing.

“They weren’t looking at me.”

“Ah?”

“They were looking at you.”

“Ah…”

He smiles, and Julian rubs his face, hides his eyes.

“You knew, didn’t you.”

“Perhaps.”

He turns his head, slides a look across the shop. The boldest of the women opens her mouth, sips air, blinks at him. A trifle crass. He doesn’t mind.

When Julian takes his hand possessively and frowns across the shop, he minds even less.


	4. amango-tea asked: This is practically your own prompt back at you, but: Julian and contact-starved Garak. DS9 or DD9--your choice.

It’s funny, in a way that really isn’t very funny at all.

Garak looks at him, at how he moves, how he laughs, and aches to touch him.

Instead, his fingers curl into his palms, his fingernails bite into his own flesh. He keeps his arms steady at his sides. He permits himself only pleasant smiles, nodding laughter. He never reaches out.

It simply isn’t safe.

Sometimes he is touched, gently, lightly. Sometimes a warm hand finds the small of his back, or rests for a moment on the angle between shoulder and arm. It’s not often. It’s too often. It’s dangerous.

The first time they’d met, he’d touched him, not having any idea what he was doing. He’d rested his hands on his shoulders, savoured the way that tension roiled there. He’d been delighted with how easily manipulated he was.

Too easily. He’s starting to realize, now.

The man is malleable beyond belief. He smiles, he tilts his head, he aches to please, and what will he become if he shapes himself to please Garak?

It’s unthinkable.

Garak remembers a bright room where, once, with gentle hands, he’d unmade a man. With slow, measured movements, unassisted by any tool or toy, he’d stripped away everything that had made that man a person. He’d torn away his dignity. He’d taken his pride. He’d destroyed his ability to think. He’d left him quivering and fearful, flinching at the sight of his soft, uncalloused hands.

At the start, there had been two people in that bright little room. At the end, there had been only one.

It’s ridiculous, really, to think that the taint of his past could somehow sully the lovely man who lights his present. There is no blood on his hands. They carry no mark of how they have been used.

But he will not touch him with hands that have done that. Not again. Not now that he knows just how much damage he could do.

It’s such a silly fancy. There’s a banquet in plain sight and he’s starving to death, and for what? Penance? The need to make it right?

Bashir laughs, smiles, flashes bright eyes at him, and _oh,_ he aches, and his hands are still, still, still.

_I can never do penance enough._

But this is a place to start.


End file.
